


How NOT to Make Pirozhki

by BluSkates



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:54:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11097315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluSkates/pseuds/BluSkates
Summary: Yuri "practices" making Pirozhki for the upcoming visit to his grandfather's home in Moscow.  This chapter is a gift to the always lovely Frilly_Axolotl for the story "Six Kinds of Love" which I and several other writers on this board just ADORE!!!! Please go and read it if you can.





	How NOT to Make Pirozhki

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Frilly_Axolotl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frilly_Axolotl/gifts).



“Okay, so we need onions.” Yuri was chewing on his thumbnail staring into the fridge. “I think we need like a dozen of them.”

“That seems like too many.” Otabek sat at the breakfast bar across the room toying with his phone.

“I’m making more than one, asshole!” In the past few day Yuri had refrained from calling Otabek an **asshole** and changed to calling him an _asshole_. The distinction was, admittedly minor, however with a trained and sensitive ear one could clearly hear that the second usage of the moniker was a term of endearment. Otabek had convinced himself of this, but kept this to himself, nonetheless.

“You know there’s a recipe and video on youtube. We can follow it step by step.” He spun the phone around in his wrist to show the delicate blonde who had taken out a dozen onions, five pounds of potatoes, two heads of cabbage, and a bag of baby carrots. “Also, potatoes and carrots don’t go in pirozhki?”

“I’m making my grampa’s pirozhki!” Yuri snapped with pride. His eyes were damp with the memory. “I use to make these all the time with my grampa.” _I never once, in my entire life made these. I have never made anything to eat. Even Isaac and Matiev knew not to let me handle food_. “And we ate them every Sunday.” _Until Yakov told me I couldn’t risk putting on too much weight. Well, no worries about that anymore. My life is over and I can get fat all I want_. The little blonde was moving the vegetables with an appalling lack of grace to the breakfast bar, dropping them directly in front of Otabek. “We start by… we start by chopping up everything.”

Otabek saw the light in Yuri’s green eyes spark to life when speaking of his grandfather and the way his delicate long fingers practically danced over the food. He would bite his tongue and help with what was sure to be an utter disaster happily if it meant chasing the smile that kept bubbling up on the plush lips of this young man.

“Should we start with the dough?” Otabek rose from the stool and pocketed his phone.

“Huh?” Yuri had been organizing the veg by some method known only to himself.

“We should make the dough first, so it can rise. Then we can prepare the vegetables and meat.” Otabek reached into one of the stuffed cabinets to pull down a sack of flour and packet of yeast.

“Yeah, I was going to tell you to do that.” Yuri covered quickly. He stopped, searching memories of sitting in the kitchen, enjoying the warmth from the stove, watching his grandfather sing as he worked the dough. He couldn’t remember how the man made dough. Yuri could remember the smell of the man’s aftershave, how his beard was always so gruff on his face, how his eyes would crinkle with a smile. The blonde stood there, lost in memory, for a few moments. A stray tear peaked out of the corner of an eye but held firm. _Next week. I see him again next week. I’ll sit in that hard wooden chair again. And he’ll sing and make pirozhki. And this time I will be able to help_. “And everything will be okay then.”

“Huh?” Otabek had barely heard the boy’s muttering.

“Nothing, why aren’t you making dough, asshole?” See, _asshole_ it was a pet name that one man would give to the man he was slowly seeing as a friend, and maybe boyfriend. _Okay, Altin, dial it back. This kid was held a slave by the two worst possible monsters for a year and a half. He watched his friend get brutalized daily. And even he had_ … Otabek snapped himself out of the thoughts. Going down that alley would lead to only one outcome. And he had already gotten himself and Viktor into enough trouble with his inability to overcome the hurt to those he loved. It was Viktor’s fault though, should have never encouraged him to read Beowulf.

Quickly pulling out a mixing bowl, Otabek grabbed what else was needed for dough and began putting it together. He wouldn’t pull Yuri from the happy memories he so richly deserved for the world. The dough kneaded up quickly but would have to sit for an hour to rise.

Yuri had begun to chop the onions still lost in thoughts. Otabek reached across to pull two onions away. He would chop one and quickly find a way to hide the the other, this method helped him to cut down the superfluity of veg that would never fit in the frying pan.

The dough was rising nicely, and the vegetables, which for some reason included potatoes, lay in neat piles waiting to be sauteed and fried. Otabek turned on the radio to a classical station. He moved the dial to find something more contemporary when he noticed Yuri’s eyes. Sparkling green.

“No, go back to that station, please.” Yuri’s voice was unrecognizable. It was young and soft. And.. wait, was that a “please”?

Otabek scrolled slowly back to the station, never taking his eyes off of Yuri’s face. Once the song came back it was like something filled the boy and emptied him at the same time. That horrifying edge left and something soft and loving came flooding back into him. The face softened into a smile as his eyes shone out.

“Chopin. Nocturne in F.” Yuri said.

Otabek knew to stay quiet and wait. The boy would come to him when he was ready.

“I skated to it as my last piece for juniors. I won with this song.” Yuri spoke so quietly Otabek wondered if he were meant to hear any of this. “I argued with Yakov, he wanted to Sabre Dance, but I knew that was wrong.”

Otabek waited, he felt it was right to speak up, “why?”

Yuri’s eyes snapped to the Khazak’s face. “People would have expected that. I was wild on the ice, uncontrolled. My jumps were high and my spins were fast, but the judges were always coming at me with ‘edge control’.” Yuri paused for a moment, “but this song demands perfect technique, and if I could do that, I’d surprise everybody.”

Otabek remembered the performance. Yuri was right, he shocked the hell out of his fans and the judges with this program. It was stunning, understated, controlled. It was divine.

Yuri was swaying, fingers dancing along the top of the counter. Otabek moved over to the boy.

 _Be honest, now is the time for honesty_. “I saw that performance. You were perfect.” Otabek stood only a foot away, not wanting to crowd the blonde. He would never forgive himself if he scared the boy off.

“In the audience?” Yuri sounded a little strained.

“On youtube.” Otabek laughed and felt relief overcome him as the small blonde smiled and relaxed. “My sister was a fan. She insisted I watch with her.”

“You have a sister?” Yuri asked with a smile.

Otabek shifted his eyes to the side, sliding them off the gorgeous face. “I have five sisters.”

“Fucking Christ!” Yuri was good with words, he could turn a phrased like Shakespeare.

“I have four brothers.”

“God dammit! Did your father ever put on pants?” Both men were laughing hysterically at this point. Neither noticing that the song had ended and change to another. Neither had noticed that distance between them was decreasing, close to vanishing.

“I’m the third oldest, which is why I went to work so soon. I visit them as often as I can, but they all still live in Kazakhstan.”

“So you don’t get to see your family often either?” Yuri spoke softly, his eyes had fallen to Otabek’s chest. The blonde’s breathing had changed to take on a heavier tone.

“I would never compare it to what you’ve been through.” Otabek spoken carefully around this, knowing that at any moment Yuri could pull back and the claws could come flying out. He waited to see if the blonde was settled. The slender man seemed to have retreated into his thoughts, and Otabek knew it was time to redirect him, “we should fry the meat while the dough rises.”

“Mmmhhhh.” Yuri didn’t move or take his eyes from Otabek’s chest.

Otabek was at a loss as to what to do. He didn’t want to disturb the blonde if the memory was good, but something about the way the boy kept staring square in his chest made him worried that it was a nightmare. Slowly he rose a hand to tap him on the elbow. The boy flinched, but it was as if he was waking.

“Yeah, we fry the meat and onions and potatoes together.” Yuri moved to the stove without acknowledging Otabek’s touch. He turned his back to the Kazakh, but his voice sounded as if there was a smile on his lips, “I remember that part.”

 _Oh god, these are going to be horrible_. Otabek grimaced at the thought of raw potatoes trying to fry while onions wilting to a crisp brown sat in hamburger fat. Before he was able to counsel Yuri, the blonde had slipped a large sauteing pan onto a burner, turned it too high, added in a generous amount of oil (for reasons known only to Yuri) and dump all the aforementioned ingredients in. The sizzle became unsettling, and Otabek wondered if burning down this mansion would get him fired.

 _Killed. Old man Nikiforov will kill me. And probably Viktor too_.

At that moment Yuri turned and beamed the first smile Otabek had ever seen on his face. It was unguarded and honest. He was happy. After a year and a half of captivity, torture, trauma, a year and a half of being separated from all of those he loved. A year and a half of being kept off the ice and subjected to the worst kind of abuse. The boy was smiling.

 _Fuck it. The house is burning down. I’m good with this_.

“Do you think your sister could visit?” Yuri called out over the sound of meat being burnt. “I could teach her to skate. Maybe do some of my tricks.”

“She would like that a great deal. After we return from Moscow I’ll ask Viktor.” Otabek moved to the stove top, while Yuri was busying himself with finding spices the Kazakh quickly lowered the heat and covered the pan.

Yuri pulled a large wooden spoon out of a nearby drawer and began to stir the meat. The onions were quickly browning, the meat was a slower ordeal. The pan, being crowded didn’t really allow the meat to cook properly. The potatoes, well they were doing what potatoes in that situation should do, emitting the nastiest smell possible.

“I think there’s a spice I’m missing. These don’t really smell like how I remember…” Yuri’s voice began to quaver. The slim blonde’s body was boney, regardless of how much of Phichit’s food he ate, and it showed his stress clearly. The boy’s breathing quickened, his body started to shake a little. Little pricks of tears were threatening to come out.

Otabek’s guard came up, he would be damned if this were the moment that Yuri fell apart. He felt a closeness building between the two and couldn’t risk the blonde retreating back behind his miserable hard shell. Thinking quickly he uttered, “well, this are the test run, right?”

Yuri thought for a moment and shot Otabek a confused look. “Test run?”

“Phichit and Chris do that all the time. They make a dinner to practice how to actually make it for the next time.” The lie came easier than he would have imagined. “You wouldn’t have made these, or seen these made in a long time. So this is just practice.”

Yuri slowly nodded. Suddenly the tension that was forming in his body released. His shoulders settled back down, his jaw unclenched. “Yeah, this is just for us.”

Otabek smiled at the thought of something being just for the two of them. And that they were “us”.

“Quit looking at me all dippy like, asshole. Get a plate!” Yuri snapped at Otabek as he returned to his normal self.

Otabek was delighted to hear his diminutive again, “asshole.” One could really hear the love in it.

+++

How to really make Pirozhkis.  
So this is a recipe my grandmother gave me:  
1 lb hamburger  
6 hard boiled eggs (one uncooked egg to brush the dough)  
2 cups of warmed milk  
1 head of cabbage, shredded  
6 cups flour  
Salt to taste, pepper to taste  
Three tbsp butter (separated 2/1)  
Yeast

Now you take all that shit and thrown it out.  
Go get Mexican food.

**Author's Note:**

> Frilly - I miss you! Write more!!!  
> I actually made Pirozhki recently and remembered just how much I don't like them. They taste much better when slathered in hot sauce with cheese and sour cream... which means they taste much better when I think it's a Burrito.


End file.
